


A Dance of Shadows

by Seilann



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-18 19:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16523270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seilann/pseuds/Seilann
Summary: Historical AU. Emil is the heir to Västerström Company, which has taken advantage of the lack of competition in Japan to make a killing on trade. Unfortunately, war and piracy have nearly toppled the company, and Emil thinks it might be time for a new job...Meanwhile, the ethereal dancer Yuugenji and his cousin Tsuri perform for nobles in the hopes of learning about a mysterious illness threatening the capital.





	A Dance of Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> I realize it's been a *long* time since I posted. I've also been sitting on the first chapter of this for about the same amount of time. Thank you to a certain someone who recently left a comment on one of my old works, thus knocking me down the AO3/SSSS rabbit hole.
> 
> Technically, this is an alternate universe AND alternate history fic, taking liberties with 1592 Warring States Japan. For example, Portuguese and Spanish missionaries entered the country as early as 1543, but there weren't any Nordic people in the country at this point, nor any trade organized by Westerners. In fact, the first Swedish person didn't make it there until 1775 (according to Wikipedia). I'll do my best to point out other such liberties chapter by chapter, probably at the end.
> 
> Finally, I'd like to say that I intend no offense to people of any nationality. Rather than perpetuate any stereotypes, I've done my best to represent Japan and Japanese culture as I experienced it in my two years living there. Two years does not make me a scholar by any means, and I welcome any and all constructive criticism. :)

Ten years after the Västerströms’ move to Japan, Emil still felt a twist in his gut every time he left the manor in Western clothing.

It wasn’t _poor_ clothing. His ruffled collar and double-breasted coat were the height of fashion in most of Europe — or had been a decade ago, who knew these days — and velvet was almost unheard of in the Orient. Emil knew he looked glorious, from his golden mane right down to the gold buckles on his shoes. And that was exactly the problem. He stood out too much. The rich in this country didn’t show off their calves by wearing tights; they wore pleated pants as wide as ship sails. Sleeves here didn’t poof, they cascaded, and even doubled as humongous square pockets. Shiny buttons had no place on the front of Oriental outfits, only thick, embroidered belts tied into elaborate knots.

Emil knew he should take pride in his attire. His family was known throughout the entire Kinai area and beyond for their trade business between Japan and China. Their first few years here had been so successful that the local bourgeoisie had (albeit cautiously and with a cold politeness, as things were done here) accepted the Västerströms into their inner sanctum. They were the only foreigners in the region to have received that honor, which was likely all that kept them afloat these days. Still, even acceptance was done at arm’s length. A foreigner was a foreigner, and while being one gave him prestige, it also made him lonely.

_Well_ , Emil thought, keeping his chin up and eyes focused straight ahead as he strode through the wide dirt streets, _I would at least wear their stupid kimonos if they weren’t so impossible to put on._

Oh, how he’d tried. And oh, how quickly silk can go up in flames.

It was nearing that lazy time of day, when the cacophony of cicada whirs was beginning to ease up and the first wave of cool air drifted down from the mountains. The smell of cooking fish and sticky rice wafted out through the windows of the wooden townhouses lining Shijo Street. Peasants had begun the weary walk home from their daily toils, but apparently weren’t too tired to stare as the blonde foreigner passed by. Emil caught a whiff of incense and followed it to the high stone wall of a temple. Further down was a wooden gate covered by a narrow shingled roof. Uncle Torbjörn and Aunt Siv stood in the shade of the roof, speaking Japanese to a surly man in the tall black hat typical of fortune tellers. The man didn’t seem to care for the conversation, and hurried off the second Torbjörn turned his attention to Emil.

“There you are!” He smothered his nephew with a hug. “Your Aunt Siv worried you would be late again.”

“I’d rather not go at all.” Emil pulled away with the least embarrassed expression he could manage. Even now, he could feel eyes on him, and remembered that physical signs of affection were cause for rubbernecking here.

“Now, now,” Torbjörn said. “We need you there. Now that your parents have given up on the company and gone home—”

Emil ignored the pang of resentment at the reminder.

“—it’s up to the three of us to keep Västerström Trading above water.”

“And the best way to do that,” Siv chimed in, stepping out into the street, “is to stay on good terms with the locals. Although I’m sure we’ll manage to fail somehow.”

Emil fell into step behind them. A quick glance around the now-empty street gave him the courage to fix his hair. This was his life now: prancing from noble to noble, hoping one of them took an interest in sponsoring a business that probably wouldn’t survive Japan’s war with Korea or piracy in Chinese waters. And Emil would take it like a Viking, so long as no one tried to marry him off for it. “So, who are we buttering up tonight?”

Torbjörn quickened his pace. “Ah, another of the old war lords — Ikeda, was it? It seems he has a daughter about your age…”

Emil sank his chin into his ruffled collar. “Great.”

 

 

The great Yuugenji rarely did private performances outside of the royal palace. It wasn’t a matter of money — firstly because he didn’t care about money, and secondly because nobles were willing to dole out a ridiculous amount of it for an evening’s entertainment. It was just that these performances always had to start so _early_ , before the sun had even properly set, and continued long past the time when he would rather be free to roam the forest of Kibune or hike Mount Kurama. The wilderness north of Kyoto called to him in a way few places did, while the city itself with all its noise and motion made him dizzy.

“But you’ll enjoy yourself this time,” his cousin had told him. “We’ll be near the woods, at Arashiyama. And anyway, it’s just one dance.”

He guessed it wouldn’t be so horrible. And he did have to perform for the nobles every now and then, if he wanted to stay current on the spread of the rash illness. There really was no easier way to gather information than to put on a mask and become part of the background scenery while rich, bored people gossiped in fake whispers behind their gilded folding fans.

The nobles in question this evening were the Ikeda family. They had a close relationship with Hideyoshi himself — something like their former patriarch being a war general and retainer. The exact details didn’t matter. What did matter was that they would almost assuredly know something worth overhearing.

The Ikeda manor sprawled across its own private hill to the west of the city, offering a full view of Arashiyama’s gentle slopes on the other side of the Hozu River. It seemed like every door in the house slid open to this view. And there were a good many doors, several in each long wooden building, and some even along the corridors that ran between the buildings. When Yuugenji’s oxcart arrived, the doors in the far west building had been taken out of their tracks, turning three rooms into a single, open area glowing with orange sunlight. The party hadn’t started yet. Servants were just starting to carry in the low tables and silk cushions for the feast.

Tsuri twisted anxiously on the pillow across from him. Her black wig, just as fine as those of noblewomen but done up in the basic winged topknot of her own social class, seemed very large in the confined space. “Listen, I know this may seem like a routine job to you…” She peeped out the carriage window, then lowered her voice. “But we think there’s something major to discover here. During the divination last night, the stars were showing—”

“I get it. I’ll be careful.”

“Just let me do all the talking and don’t do anything to give yourself away. And don’t forget — _Tsuri_ , not Tuuri.”

As if he could attempt the talking himself. The performer tightened the straps on his mask and climbed out of the carriage. He had left his true self behind when he put the mask on. Now he was only Yuugenji, the legendary dancer, he who saw the hidden world. Part of this world he would share with his audience tonight. And part of it he would look away from as though it wasn’t there, as though its monstrous forms were mere shadows that couldn’t swallow people’s souls.

A servant showed them to a private room. Tsuri declined saké for both of them, but accepted a bowl of tea and plate of sweets “for Master Yuugenji,” which she tucked into herself as soon as they were alone.

Yuugenji ignored her and began his stretches, but not before checking again that his mask was secure. A bolt of black fabric stretched from beneath the edges to wrap around the back of Yuugenji’s head, completely hiding his hair. The painted wooden face covered his own from the forehead to just above the chin, mimicking traditional nohgaku masks. Except while foxes and crows were common characters, lynxes had no place in nohgaku, kabuki, or any other type of Japanese theater.

His costume had been custom-made to match: the top layer a waterfall of shiny beige silk, elaborately embroidered with little black insignias, and the layer visible beneath that a soft cream color. His audiences always made a game of trying to interpret the costume, but had about as much luck with that as with the dance itself.

“You know…” Tsuri began, then stopped as the floor creaked in the hallway.

A shadow appeared through the paper squares in the sliding door. “Var _är_ den?” someone mumbled. Then all at once that someone was leaping away from the cracked door with a terrified yelp of “Troll!”

Yuugenji frowned beneath his mask. A foreigner? And a very obvious one, at that. In the most ridiculous clothing. With the most gaudy yellow hair. He sighed. “Tuuri.”

Trance broken, the young woman leapt from her seat. “Hej!” she called to the stranger, her face a sudden yet very convincing portrait of friendliness and enthusiasm as she rushed toward him. “Svenska, ja? Kan jag hjälpa dig?”

Of all the languages Tsuri had insisted on learning. What were the odds? Meanwhile the dancer couldn’t understand a word. He gathered from her pointing that she was directing the foreigner somewhere, and then perhaps explaining Yuugenji’s dramatic appearance. The guy’s face flushed, and he tugged on a strand of his hair before muttering something and wandering away down the hall.

Tsuri came back with stars in her eyes. “An actual Swedish person! They’re really as beautiful as Onni said they are. Can you believe it, Lalli?”

His whole body twitched at that name.

“Sorry! I forgot that you’re Yuugenji right now.” She lifted the last sweet off the tray, but hesitated to bite into it. Her expression turned thoughtful. “He’s a bit shorter than I expected, though. And the feet — I forgot to look!”

Whatever weird thing she was on about now, Yuugenji didn’t get to ask. Shuffling footsteps neared the room. A glance out the window revealed a sky of molten gold.

It was show time.


End file.
